


Unfinished Creations

by Shadow_of_Quill



Series: Biomagical Manufacturing [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Papyrus-centric, sadfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 04:46:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12101016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_of_Quill/pseuds/Shadow_of_Quill
Summary: This isn't a sibling, it's - a model. A statuette.(A hopeless wish.)





	Unfinished Creations

Papyrus has always wanted more siblings. Sans doesn't, he knows, but he's sure that with time Sans will stop seeing them as a replacement for him and his low stats.

They've been living above ground for years before Papyrus admits to himself that Sans might never stop.

Which is fine! Papyrus loves Sans unconditionally, and if Sans needs to be Papyrus' only sibling to feel confident of his brother's love, Papyrus is more than happy to give him that.

He just - wishes, sometimes, that he didn't have to.

 

Papyrus sits alone in his house and stares at his glass of milk. He isn't thirsty.

His magic swirls in the glass, condensing the calcium in the milk ("MILK IS FULL OF STRONG BONES!") as he concentrates, reminding himself of forms that he hasn't worked with for years ("I THINK I'VE FORGOTTEN HOW TO MAKE SKULLS"), until.

The glass is dry. At the bottom lies a tiny, perfectly-shaped skeleton.

It's not betraying his brother as long as he doesn't give the new form a soul, he tells himself. This isn't a sibling, it's - a model. A statuette.

(A hopeless wish.)

He hides it in his room.

 

"Another gallon, already? You sure like your milk," the shop assistant jokes.

Papyrus grins back. "OF COURSE!"

 

Two. Three. Four.

They're too small to be given life anyway. They'd never grow to full size.

Papyrus still keeps them hidden from his brother.

 

Papyrus visits a school. One of the children hands him a pack of coloured chalks. "My dad says this is made of the same chem-i-cal as bones," they say solemnly.

Papyrus nods. "YOUR DAD IS VERY CORRECT!"

They smile, suddenly, bright and carefree. "They're for you!" they say, and run off, leaving him with an unexpected gift.

 

He laughs to himself when the colours show in the bones he forms, the new skeleton a swirl of yellow, pink, blue, green.

He almost names them WordArt.

He doesn't make any new skeletons for months, long after the burn from not using his power has returned.

These little - _trinkets_ he's been making, he can't name them. They don't get names. Names are for people, not things.

They aren't people. He can't forget that.

He can't let them be.

 

"everything okay, bro? you seem kind of down, lately," Sans says, falsely casual.

Papyrus almost tells him, almost shows him - but he'd just see proof that he's not enough, wouldn't he?

"I'VE BEEN QUESTIONING WHETHER TO GIVE UP A CERTAIN HOBBY OF MINE," is what Papyrus says.

"if it's not making you happy, sure. if it is, stick with it," is Sans' advice.

Papyrus is sure his advice would be different if he really knew what Papyrus is talking about.

He doesn't let that stop him from taking the advice he's been given.

 

Papyrus starts making and arranging dollhouses. It's a surprisingly fun hobby.

Having somewhere to hide the many tiny skeletons he's crafted is only a bonus.

 

He doesn't admit to himself that they have names.

 

Papyrus stares at the skull carved from a gemstone. The sculptor laughs, a little nervous, and says, "Yeah, it seemed... appropriate, or something? Like, there's opal fossils, so..."

Papyrus tests it, and though it's nothing like chalk, there's a resonance with his own magic that says he can use this.

"DO YOU HAVE ANY DUST FROM THE CARVING?" he asks, forgetting for a moment that he meant to ask for sources of marble chips.

 

He smiles softly as he looks at his two newest babybones, one solid as the marble they are formed of, the other delicately translucent.

He doesn't acknowledge the wetness pooling in his sockets as he tucks away his latest children-who-will-never-be-born.

He wishes he could show Sans all their new siblings.

He wishes Sans would love them if he did.


End file.
